Judas Country

He stiffened. 'Who said that?'

'We got picked up by a cop in Tel Aviv last night. He works for the Antiquities Department. Ken, itwas a trap.'

'Of course it was. They were behind me from the start -that's why I went to Acre, where Brtjno was digging. Always give the client what he suspects, anyway. They're probably ripping that town apart looking for buried treasure.'

'And you. How did you get away?'

'Got up early and caught a train. Have you any idea what time the trains get up in this country?'

'Well… they'll soon know I'm in Jerusalem and they could guess about you. Anyway, if I was looking for Cavitt and Case I'd put a man in the bar of the King David and forget the rest of the country.'

He looked around quickly. Only a dim yellow light came in through the Olde Englyshe windows behind him, and they hadn't turned on the main lights. But nobody seemed to be bending an ear at us. Thejest of the crop seemed to be normal tubby tourists.

Ken relaxed and grinned. "They don't know usthat well. Anyway, Israeli cops can't afford to drink here.'

'Neither can we. After this one, let's get operational. Have you really got a deal?'

'I spent an hour with Gadulla before I rang you today. We've got a deal.'

'Let's get started on it, then.'

'Look, nothing much can happen before night.'

'We can get spotted, that's what can happen. It's a small country, Ken. The cops know each other. The word gets around fast.'

Thunder ripped the invisible sky and didn't even shake the drink in my glass. Just sound and fury; harmless.

Ken nodded at the ceiling. 'In this clag?'

"That's all right. I'm wet already.'

*

No taxis, of course, and the half mile to the Jaffa Gate had stretched in the rain to a good mile-and-a-half. But behind us, beyond the weird great sultan's palace of the YMCA, the sky was clearing to a copper-sulphate blue. The front was almost through.

We moved at an Olympic walk, the rain bouncing up around our ankles.

'Great idea,' Ken said in a sodden voice. 'Now we can plead not guilty by reason of pneumonia.'

'It's all in the mind. Did Gadulla mention anything about a letter from the Prof?'

'He was expecting one, all right. So it existed.'

'You didn't say what had happened to it?'

'Why complicate things? He probably hasn't heard of Papa getting dead and wouldn't connect it up anyway. If he likes to think the letter never got written…' He took his hands out of his pockets to shrug more expressively, then hastily stuffed them back.

Then there was the City ahead of us, the squat grey-gold walls and ramparts reflected and exaggerated in the shapes of the thunderheads above. At least the rain had flattened the dust that usually blows in your eyes at that corner.

We went in by the Jaffa Gate – really just a gap torn in the wall by some Turkish slob in the nineteenth century – and about that time, the rain cut off. Just like that.

Ken said: 'Just ten minutes and we could have got here without total baptism.'

Around us, the sun was hatching out taxis, tourists – and a handful of khaki-uniformed coppers. Ken jerked his head. 'Come on."

The Old City's been around a long time, but once you're inside, it doesn't feel particularly old. Not like those tall quiet back streets in Florence or Venice. This is all too quick and busy, and the Holy Sepulchre itself, over Christ's tomb, just beats Southend funfair but only just. King Richard didn't miss much.

But our part of town was the narrow jostling souks and alleys, sometimes covered with vaulted roofs and ventilation holes half blocked with weed so the sunlight comes down in pale green shafts into the blue smoke drifting from the metal-workers' shops. Each shop a tall narrow cave stretching back into what could be primeval rock but is probably the brickwork of Suleiman the Magnificent or even Herod. So maybe the place does feel a bit old, when you stop and think. We weren't stopping.

We weaved through the crowd, banging our heads on baskets and dresses hung overhead, brushing off Arab boys shouting: 'Hey, my friend, I am your guide…' until I was properly lost. As far as you can get lost in a place only half a mile square. Just Ken's way of shaking off any tail.

I found myself getting a close-up of a goatskin jacket hanging over a clothing shop while Ken scouted our back trail. Until then, the air had smelled of spices and coffee and that vegetable smell that rain brings out anywhere. Now the late goat had it all his own way.

'Any bogeymen?' I asked.

'No, I don't think so.'

'So we can move on? – this jacket's getting friendly.'

Tell it you're engaged.' He led the way around one more corner into a souk that was mostly metal and jewellery shops, with crumbling old boys sitting behind counters brazing brass pots with blow-lamps. Ken stopped at a cave lined with spearheads, pots, swords, helmets – most of them so obviously reproduction that the few aged pieces looked pretty good by contrast.

A chirpy Arab boy in jeans and a V-neck sweater came forward to start his sales talk.

Ken said: 'Gadulla's expecting us. Caviti – and my friend.'

The kid gave a smile of recognition and scuttled back into the shop.

We eased in a couple of steps off the street and waited. Opposite was a barber's with a glassed-in front. The Old City supports more barbers than an Army training camp, but everybody still seems covered in hair. Just another economic factor I'll never grasp.

A quiet gritty voice said: 'Ahlan, ahlan…' and we turned round.

Why had I expected an old man? – because the Prof had been? – because of the antiques angle? This one was tall, lean and several years younger than us. Dressed in a slim, coarse gallabiya, jacket and red-and-white check head-dress tied with black silk. A thin triangular face you might have called hawklike if the hawk hadn't flown into high ground some time and bent its beak, the bend exaggerated by the symmetrical little moustache beneath. But the eyes were dark and calm.

He touched Ken on both shoulders in a ceremonial embrace, bowed to me. 'It is a pleasure, Mr Case. Please come through.' He held back an old smoke-stained curtain and we went down the cave and around a rack of modern shelving holding rows of 'antiques' and into a back chamber the size of a cell. I looked quickly at Ken, but perhaps even his dreams had forgotten by now.

'Coffee, perhaps?' Gadulla offered. 'Please sit down.'

Ken took off his jacket and shook it, then shivered. I knew how he felt.

Gadulla said: 'Of course…' and yanked a one-bar electric fire from under the low round table that held a telephone and small spirit stove.

29

A few minutes later we were sitting half-naked on chairs shaped like camel saddles and our clothes were turning the little room into a steam bath. There were no windows – just a couple of doors – and a single lamp in a beaded shade, and when you'd been there a while, the time of day stopped mattering. The room had been built without sun or stars; a place for quiet secrets.

'Is there a back door?' Ken asked.

'Perhaps fifty.' Gadulla gestured at the two doors. 'If you have the keys – and the friends. The whole street is so much connected, above and below.'

'Fine. Is the sword here?'

'It will be. Did you bring the plane with no trouble?'

I nodded. 'No trouble.'

'How good.' He walked to the front of the shop and called something to the boy. I got up and turned my half-toasted trousers around.

From the rough-plastered walls, and Gadulla himself, you couldn't guess whether the man was waiting for the soup kitchen to call or the armed guards to haul out the day's takings. His robe was plain wool cloth, his jacket a grey pin-stripe – old but well-cut – the head-dress clean.